Shameless
by licoricewolf
Summary: AU Becky Albright/Jonathan Crane. Originally titled "the one where they dry hump in the kitchen because I have no shame".


Becky has done a lot of things she should be ashamed of but isn't. She's killed people, she's stolen things. She's disowned her family and they've disowned her. If Becky were to make a list of things she should be ashamed of but isn't, it would be a very long list.

But this?

This takes the cake.

Jonathan Crane is sitting in a kitchen chair. Well, _slouching_ is a more appropriate term, since his hands are bound behind his back by nearly half a roll of duct tape and he's tuckered out from thrashing around and shouting abuse at her. But she put some more duct tape over his mouth, so hopefully he's got his strength back.

"Are you gonna be good now?" she says, pulling the tape off his face with agonizing slowness and savoring the sight of red skin and stubble under it. He sticks his tongue out and makes a fart noise.

"_Rude_." She grabs his face and squeezes his cheeks together hard. A smirk pulls at her mouth and she looks at him in that way she does when she has a terrible idea. "Is that all you can do with your tongue, Jonathan?"

He wrenches his face out her grip. "You're disgusting," he snarls wearily. It's more of an irritated growl than anything.

Becky laughs. "You think _that's_ disgusting?" she says, unadulterated mirth lighting up her features for the first time in days— weeks, maybe. She puts her arms over his shoulders and leans in close enough for a few strands of her hair to brush on his forehead. He grimaces and she laughs again. "What, are you _scared_ of me and my sex jokes?"

"Of course not."

"Are you sure?"

"You're not my type."

"And what is your type?"

"Someone who isn't trying to kill me."

Another laugh, and she stands up straight, walking behind him and resting her chin on top of his head. Her hands creep over his shoulders. "I'm not trying to kill you, darling. Not tonight, at least. Call it a truce."

He says nothing. She moves back around to face him.

"Come on, I even called you _darling_. I'm being nice."

Her head tilts to the side and she looks down at him curiously. He remains silent.

And before he knows what's happening, she's in his lap, straddling him, with her hands on his shoulders, like it's nothing. He tenses up immediately: his back straightens, his mouth sets, his legs press together. He is _not_ happy about this. He is _not_ happy about being bound to a chair in a room full of sharp objects and toxic substances. He is _not_ happy about having Becky anywhere near his throat, or… other sensitive body parts.

But then she kisses him, and he begrudgingly decides that if he's going to be here, he might as well make the best of it. So he kisses her back in the most invasive and unyielding way he knows how. Becky immediately pulls away and glares at him.

"You are _not_ allowed to do that."

He smirks. "Not tonight, at least."

She looks like she's going to throttle him but he _knows_ her and he counts down in his head _three-two-one_ and then she's kissing him again and he's kissing her back and she's started to press against him and he's wishing his hands were free for an entirely different reason now. She starts grinding, toes pointed, hands bunching in the fabric of his shirt. And it's faster now, faster, warmer, friction building, clothes wrinkling, mouths gasping and dear god he's glad he didn't kill her all those years ago because she's the only one who makes his heart do that fluttery thing and her eyes are like the apples he found on the tree in Georgia and right now he doesn't even remember Georgia, he doesn't even know what a Georgia is, is this thing that's happening right now Georgia? No, this is Becky, this is Becky's mouth and hands and lungs and chest and pelvis and that is all he cares about.

And then she stops.

He doesn't fully register it at first, and he kisses her once or twice before realizing she isn't kissing back.

"What?" he says. The world comes rushing back to him all at once: he wanted to kill her because she's a little brat who never gives him what he wants, Georgia is a state both geographically and emotionally, and they are grinding in a kitchen at nine o' clock at night. "_What?_" he hisses again.

She giggles. She has the _nerve_ to _giggle_ in his face. He swears to strangle her as soon as he gets out of this.

"Oh, nothing," she grins.

"Then why did you stop?"

"Oh, you want me to keep going?" she says, feigning innocence. "Like that?" And she rolls her hips over him. _Once_.

"_Yes like that_," he snarls. She doesn't need to look to know how painfully unsatisfied he must be.

"Welp, I guess you're just out of luck, then." She slides down his thighs towards his knees before standing. She'd love to sit right back down and get back to _corrupting_ each other, of course, but this is more important.

"What the hell are you doing, Becky?" The look of pure loathing on his face is almost as good as the grinding.

"I am _punishing_ you, Jonathan. I said I wasn't going to try to kill you tonight. I didn't say anything about _torturing_ you."

_God_, he's going to rip that smug face off her damn skull. "_We are finishing this,_" he hisses. She doesn't doubt that. She's looking forward to see exactly how depraved she can make him be in these little games.

"_I_ am. _You're_ not." She runs a finger up the inside of his thigh and leans in so her lips brush his neck. "There's a reason I used so much tape on your hands, Jonathan."

He blushes so profoundly that she can _feel_ the heat radiating off his skin. Worth it. So worth it.

She stands up and grins at him. "Now that that's taken care of— well— now that that's _not_ taken care of— I'm going to bed." She wiggles her fingers at him as she turns to leave.

"Sweet dreams, darling."


End file.
